Life on the Installment Plan: (True Story of a Professional Thief)

Copyright © 2012 Marvin Gale Maertens and Karen Fae Maertens

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ISBN: 978-1-4582-0551-3 (e)

Abbott Press rev. date: 08/03/2012

Contents

LIFE ON THE INSTALLMENT PLAN

(There Are Bars, and Then There Are Bars)

LIFE ON THE INSTALLMENT PLAN

(There Are Bars, and Then There Are Bars)

My name is Marvin Marty Maertens and this book is based on my life story—a life of crime, jails, prison, a mental hospital, and ten marriages. My life of crime actually started at about age 13; state prisons started at age 21 with an Army stockade to my credit before that. Prison life ended in December 1976 at age 45. Life itself started again with my 10th marriage on December 5, 1981.

I knew in 1976 that my life in prison was over. I’d had all I could handle with 6 prison sentences. However, at that time, I wasn’t necessarily sure I was done with crime. I only knew that I was not going back to prison. If I continued with crime, I would hold court in the street if necessary to avoid going back.

And, in December 1981, I was just as positive that my life of crime was over. I had met Karen 1-1/2 years earlier and we’d lived together for a little over a year before getting married. A beautiful woman, inside and out. She’s very intelligent, has a fantastic sense of humor, and she has a mind of her own. I can’t dominate her, nor does she try to do so with me.

We were both in the process of divorce when we met and neither of was really thinking about commitment. But, it happened and it’s beautiful. My life has changed completely. My only regret is that it happened so late in life, but whatever life is left will be good. So, on with my story.

Growing up in a small town in northern Idaho, really isn’t much different than growing up in any other town, I suppose. At least any other small town. It had a population of about 3,000 at that time, a clean and proper town.

The first 13 years of my life were the same as many kids go through. Dad and Mom divorced when I was 4 years old; Dad remarried right away to the woman he had knocked up, and my mother remarried four times in nine years to anyone she could find that might get her out of restaurant work and into a home so we could be a family. When I wasn’t with her and a new stepfather, I lived with an aunt and grandmother. My grandmother was crippled and my aunt worked and, in all honesty, my aunt was more of a parent to me than anyone. She was strict, but fair. I honestly believe if I’d have lived with them all the time, things might have turned out a lot differently.

My stepmother couldn’t stand me, and I hated her. She and Dad already had a boy and she didn’t want any more responsibility. Dad was a gambler and bar-owner and he didn’t have time for any responsibility.

So, as I said, for 13 years my life was fairly normal. I had more spending money than most kids because I had more people to con, and con them I did. Plus, I had more freedom than most because, again, I had more people trying to be the good guys and I learned easily how to take advantage of that. Even at that young age, I became a master liar and a pretty fair con artist.

School thus far was good. The first six years I was an A and B student. My aunt always found the time to work with me and gave me the desire to learn. However, about two months before the 6th grade ended, I had an accident in a ballgame. I was chasing a flyball and banged heads with another boy. He got a headache, I got a fractured skull, which would seem to prove I’m not as hard-headed as everyone thinks. I passed the 6th grade because they let me make up the tests, etc., during the summer and, again, my aunt was the teacher.

In the 7th grade, my grades started getting worse. Slowly at first, but steadily, and I barely passed that one by the end of the term.

At 13, my life really began to change. I was big for my age, and I ran with older guys and always seemed to be on the edge of trouble. Nothing serious yet—drinking, smoking, and terrorizing girls. My main friend, Danny, was 17 years old and had an old Chevrolet; we were always getting chased by the cops and reported to our folks. At the time, Mom was once again divorced and Dad had just purchased a new bar. My childhood notoriety was becoming embarrassing to him. In fact, he asked if I wanted to live with him. Hell, no, I didn’t. Not with a stepmother I couldn’t stand and a spoiled half-brother 7 years old. No way!

So, the summer between 7th and 8th grades, I met Roy, a logger, and he was looking for cheap labor in the woods. He hired me and off to the logging camp I went. To most it seemed like a good thing. I suppose it could have been if I’d have been a different kind of kid. Roy was a tough old bastard, but a smart one and a good man. He was well-satisfied with my work and soon I was handling his prize skidding team and helping him fall timber, and even driving his loaded truck to town. God, what a bigshot I was. Once we stopped at a bootleg bar and he ordered us both double shots of whiskey.

Son, he said gruffly, if you can work like a man, you can drink like one. A man after my own heart. I introduced him to Mom in June and they were married in August. And it was, finally, a marriage that lasted until Mom died in 1966.

I went back to my hometown two weeks before school started with $400 in my pocket and Roy’s assurance that I had a job anytime I wanted it.

Danny and I got a case of beer, a tank of gas, and went looking for fun. We blew two tires in an hour. Danny knew about a mobile wood saw with the same-sized tires, so I drove and Danny snuck in and got the tires. My first heist. Getaway driver for a tire thief! Just as Danny threw the last tire in, the cops roared around the corner. They had a 1942 Ford and we had a 1928 Chevy. I outran them. I put that Chevy into places they couldn’t begin to go. So, a successful escape. Bullshit! They knew exactly who they were chasing and were waiting for us at home.

That was the first time in a long time I’d seen my aunt mad. Or, maybe, worried was more like it. She was beginning to realize she didn’t have the control she thought she did. The sheriff left it up to our folks to handle after getting the tires back. After three weeks, I figured it had all blown over. I’d been back in school and no problems. Then the visit to school from Sheriff Bob and the short ride to the Sheriff’s office.

I think Sheriff Bob was born into the Sheriff’s office. He’d been there for years. He was well-respected by the older people and properly feared by the kids. You just didn’t cross him.

He sat me down and stood, just staring for a while. Finally he spoke. Son, we’ve got a problem. I didn’t answer, and he went on. You don’t have enough supervision, boy. You’re kind of running wild and heading in the wrong direction. Do you follow me?

No, I answered softly. I think I’m doing . . .

Shit! he nearly yelled. You’re 13 years old, stealing tires, outrunning cops, chasing young snatch, and drinking. That may be doing okay in your book, but I’m reading a different story. He paused and I didn’t say anything. There was nothing I could say. Not to Sheriff Bob.

He sat down across from me, rubbed his chin, and started again. Now, son, we got two choices here. Number one, your dad wants you to live with him and Bernice, but your mother has custody of you. The only way we could work that out is for you to willingly go live with your dad. If you say yes, your mom ain’t gonna object. I started to speak, but he held up his hand for silence. Hold on a minute until you hear the second choice. Then we can talk. Now, then, the second choice is that, should you decide not to live with your dad, I’m taking you to court and sending you to reform school where I know damned well you’ll be supervised. His voice grew louder with each word until he was practically hollering.

For the first time in my short life, I knew what hatred and helplessness was.

The following weekend, I moved to Dad’s and life started again. Bernice tried to hide her resentment, but how could she hide hers when I made no effort to hide mine. Never in front of my dad, of course, because his word was law.

So, as briefly as possible, here’s the new life I moved into. A stepmother that didn’t want me there, a 7-year-old brother that didn’t like sharing Dad’s attention, and a father who knew nothing about raising kids and who was going overboard to make me glad I was there. And it worked. The first time I caught him drunk with another woman, he gave me money and the use of his car. My mind began functioning properly again.

Just a short rundown on Dad here—the good and the bad. Bad first. He was a nice guy, good provider, good in his business, and a law-abiding citizen. To a point.

The good part—big spender, could and did drink more booze than three men, and tough. He hadn’t lost a fight in eight years and he got into a fight almost every time he drank, which was at least four days a week. Last, but not least, he screwed every available woman in town. Those are the good points, and I wanted to grow up to be good, just like Dad.

So, I started by 8th grade of school in a completely new environment. School held no interest for me other than sports, which I was pretty good at. My role in life then was being the bigshot. Borrowing Dad’s car after school, stealing beer from the basement of his bar, and sharing all this with the other kids.

Surprisingly, the only serious trouble I got into during the 8th grade was hitting my history teacher. He was a real asshole. He wore the same suit every day of the week, and raised hell with every boy in class. He had a thing for the young girls, but seemed to hate the boys. He made the mistake one day of slapping me and I hit him in the jaw, knocking him down against his desk and, at the same time, his wig slid down over his eyes. God, what a sight! Then, with every kid in class laughing and cheering, our beloved woman principal came in, grabbed me by the hair, and marched me to her office. I think my feet touched the floor twice in a hundred yards. God, that broad was tough.

I sat in her office until Dad got there, and the minute I told him the teacher had slapped my face, he was on my side. He even gave the principal hell for even suggesting any punishment for me. Once again, Dad was a good guy.

Somehow, through no fault of my own, I graduated from junior high school. Probably with a D+ average, but I made it. And back to the woods for the summer. That year I was being paid more money and working harder, which was okay with me. I spent the whole summer without going to town and I saved some money. At the end of the summer, I was able to pay $880 cash for a 1937 LaSalle, bought my own school clothes, and had $600 left over. Very impressive!

Starting high school was ridiculous. A total waste of time, really. Several things began happening at that time. First, I joined a local boxing club which the high school didn’t sanction. The coach gave me a choice—quit boxing or get off the football team. I got off the football team. I didn’t know at the time that the guy running the boxing club was also running a bookie booth at the pool hall on all the fights. And, as it turned out, I had a natural ability as a boxer, so he worked me hard at training and I got better and better. In three months I had four fights and won them all by knockout. Naturally, schoolwork suffered, but it would have anyway. School made no sense to me then. Boxing and my fancy car was all that mattered.

Which brings up the next event. Gas was still rationed in those days and my C-card barely gave me enough gas to drive to school and back. Dad always had gas cards in hock at the bar, so I finally got enough ahead to buy a 50-gallon drum of gas, all legal, and had it delivered to some friends’ house at the edge of town. These people had become like a second family to me; they had 13 kids—eight girls and five boys. I stayed there a lot and learned many facts of life from the girls. They ranged in age from 4 to 19 years of age and they lived in poverty and incest. I’d almost have to fight the brothers to get to the sisters, but it was worth it. A boy had to learn, didn’t he?

Now my second successful, or at least semi-successful, crime spree. It went like this. I had 50 gallons of gas, bought at 11 cents a gallon. Now, several high school kids, having worked the summer at the Navy base, had cars and a little money, but no access to gas. So I sold them gas at 50 cents a gallon. Pretty good profit. However, 50 gallons doesn’t go too far. Got the picture? I had 5-gallon cans and siphon hoses, and there were parked logging trucks all over town. It took a couple of hours for three of us to fill up the barrel. Bob and Allen would fill the cans and I’d pick them up in my car and take them to my barrel. I was selling about 70 gallons a week and using about 30 myself, so two nights a week was all we needed for stealing. We were successful for at least two months, but after a while we were repeating our hit spots and the heat was on. Finally, one night my car was parked a block away from a hit spot and I was helping fill the cans, and the truck owner heard us. He came busting out of his house with a gun in his hand, and the race was on. We got away, but we didn’t get back to the car. We went to Allen’s house. It was only a matter of time until the knock on the door and the trucker and Chief of Police was informing me they had found my car and had reason to believe I was a bad boy.

Bullshit! My car had overheated earlier and I left it there to cool off. Sounds reasonable, doesn’t it? Guess it didn’t to them, because they took us down to the police station where I demanded, Call my Dad. They did, and in a very short time Dad was raising all kinds of hell. ‘What’s the matter with you assholes, he barked at the Chief. I personally gave my kid enough gas coupons to buy a barrel of gas. Why in hell would he have to steal gas?" A phone call by the Chief and the trucker to verify that I did buy the barrel of gas, then apologies from the Chief and the trucker, who were both scared of Dad and his power with the Sheriff, and we were on our way home again. God, Dad was a good old boy.

The next event was a boxing match against a boy called Bozo. The beginning of the rigged boxing, only I didn’t know it then.

Jim, my trainer, worked steadily with me. The four previous fights had been with two local boys and two from nearby Bonners Ferry. For my age, I was a good boxer and a hard hitter. But this Bozo was something else again. The town dummy, but tough. Christ, was he tough. Like an animal and impossible to hurt. I’d sparred a few rounds with him, but always with headgear and Carl nearby to make sure it didn’t get too serious. Bozo’d had eight fights up to this time and had won them all by knockout. The only way he could win, because he knew absolutely nothing about the art of boxing. He fought with bull strength and sadistic determination. He liked to hurt and be hurt, it didn’t matter to him.

On Monday, Jim took me off to one side and calmly told me, Marty, you’re fighting Bozo this Friday night at the USO.

Are you kidding? I snapped. He’s three years older and 20 pounds heavier than me.

Don’t matter, son, Jim said. You can beat him if you outbox him, and you’re gonna do that this time all on your own. Little did I know what that was building up to.

So, for the next week I trained every night and listened to Jim tell me how good I was. The town was buzzing about the upcoming fight card. There was a lot of money in town in those days and a lot of bets placed on local fights. I found out later that the odds were 7 to 5 that Bozo would knock me out.

Friday night finally arrived and I was wired to the hilt, along with being scared. I’d naturally seen Bozo fight and knew what he could do.

This was a six-round fight instead of the usual four. The first three rounds I made him look bad. Other than a few off-balance blows, he never touched me and I peppered him with lefts and rights constantly. His left eye nearly closed, he began getting desperate and started throwing punches from every angle. Despite Jim’s warning to stay away from him and box, I decided I could knock him out. Really be the bigshot! You’re damned right I could. All I needed was a baseball bat in each hand. It was the 4th round; I walked right into one of his rights and I was down. I could hear Jim screaming to get up and, somehow, I did, at the bell.

I did stay away from him the final two rounds, but did no damage of my own. Only because of the first three rounds, I won a very slim decision. Little did I know it was exactly what Jim wanted.

A week later, Jim told me to come to his house after school. When I got there, Bozo was already there. Marty, Jim started. You’re a smart kid, so I want you to listen and don’t say anything until I’m done. Okay? I nodded, and he went on. Bozo has got a mother and three sisters and damned little money. You get enough money, but I’ve got a feeling you like money and wouldn’t turn down a few easy bucks. He paused, but I didn’t say anything. For some reason, even at my young age, I think I knew what was coming. Okay, Marty, you and Bozo are gonna fight again July 4th and this time you’re gonna knock Bozo out in the 3rd round. Whatta you think? Knocking Bozo out in itself sounded good to me. I’d be a hero, but how did Bozo feel about this?

Jim went on. Bozo is going down in the 3rd, Marty, and it has to look good. You’re each gonna get $200 for this fight. In Bozo’s case, no problem. The money will go to his mom and no one will suspect, but you gotta be careful, Marty. You suddenly come up with a lot of money and we got problems.

Not really, I said. I got money left in the bank and nobody knows what I make because I work weekends and summers for my stepdad, so I could cover easily.

Good, Jim said, relieved. Bozo has already agreed, so now it’s up to you. Whatta you say?

Sounds good to me, I answered. I mean, let’s face it—it was my kind of life.

When school let out that time, I didn’t go back to the woods steady. I had to spend a lot of time in Jim’s garage, practicing the knockout. Jim was pretty worried that Bozo wouldn’t be able to fake it and make it look good, so it was one rehearsal after another.

July 4th finally arrived. The town was jammed and the odds were fantastic. Jim was going to make a bundle on this one. The odds were even that I’d win if the fight went the distance, and 5 to 1 that I couldn’t knock Bozo out. You know Jim was taking all bets. Makes sense, doesn’t it?

July 5th, the fight was over, and to almost everyone in town I was a hero. Bozo had made it look perfect. As I said, he seemed to enjoy being hurt and he made sure I landed seven or eight solid blows before he went down. Only one guy in town didn’t seem too pleased. Sheriff Bob. As proof of that, he picked me up downtown and gave me a free ride to his office. Seems like he had lost $300 on the fight. For some reason, I wasn’t as scared of him now. I think that living under Dad’s roof seemed to take his power away, plus the fact that I hated the bastard for using ANY power over me to start with.

Got a question for you, boy, he started, using his most serious glare. Did Jim fix this fight? Simple and to the point.

Hell, no, I answered. Why would he have to do that?

Because you can’t whip Bozo, boy, much less knock him out.

Bullshit, boy, I snapped, and his face turned white. For a second, I thought he was going to knock me out of the chair. I whipped him fair and square, I nearly hollered.

He studied me a minute. How much money you got on you? he asked suddenly.

I heaved a sigh of relief. My $200 was hidden in a jar in my bedroom. $16, I snapped, and threw my billfold on the desk in front of him.

He stared at me a minute, shoved my billfold back, saying You can go, but I’ll be watching you. So Jim had got to him for $300. Jim was somewhat like Dad—a good old boy.

The rest of that summer was, for the most part, uneventful. A few drunks, a few girls, a few fights with my stepmother, but nothing really exciting.

My second year of high school started and I lasted a month before getting expelled the first time. All because a friend and I caught about 100 harmless garter snakes and turned them loose in the hallways. Talk about a lack of a sense of humor.

Unfortunately, Dad was able to talk the principal into letting me back in, so it was another two weeks before I managed to get kicked out again. This time for screwing a senior class cheerleader in the boiler room. Caught by the janitor. Again, no sense of humor prevailed.

And, again, Dad got me back in so, finally, I announced I was quitting. That was the first time I’d really seen Dad angry. He was furious. He wanted me to have an education, but a hotheaded kid that already knew it all, like me, couldn’t be told anything. I had already conned Mom into letting me quit and work for Roy, so Dad couldn’t really say too much.

I spent the winter splitting cedar posts, and I did pretty good. A lot of snow that year, so there were no town trips until spring. In March, I bought a Model A Ford pickup and started hauling posts to the railroad five miles away. I got 4 cents a post and could haul 120 on a load. Many trips a day, because I loved to drive and I drove fast. I made as much money as the bigger trucks.

When the hauling was over, I headed for town with a pocket full of money. By then I weight 180 pounds and looked much older than my 16 years. However, in those days a kid could drink in any bar around that area if they knew your folks didn’t care. And, hell, my folks seemed to encourage it. I drank free at Dad’s, and Mom and Roy always took me in the bars with them. I spent a lot of time drinking and playing slot machines. Before long, my money was nearly gone. I sold my LaSalle and, soon after, my pickup went to hell, so except for Dad’s car I was afoot.

I’m not sure what caused my next crime event. I mean, the particular job I pulled—a burglary. Sheriff Bob’s house.

I’d been in his house several times when I was younger, having been playmates with his son, and it was common knowledge that he kept money in a file cabinet in his bedroom. I also knew he and his wife went to bingo every Tuesday night.

For many years, I always figured I had a lot of guts, but probably a more honest evaluation would be a lot of stupidity. Whatever it was, I seldom felt fear, especially before doing something. Everything was a challenge and a thrill. Possibly, too, was the fact that I felt my dad could get me out of anything if I got caught. Burglary seemed to come naturally for me. Even at 16, I planned and executed well. Not doubt that’s why, over the years, I attracted some pretty good thieves to work with.

The Sheriff’s house was a cinch, actually. The door wasn’t even locked. Hell, who would dare break into Sheriff Bob’s house?

I hid in the alley and watched until they left for bingo. His son was away at college, so I knew it was empty. I waited long enough to be sure they hadn’t forgotten something and wouldn’t be back. In through the back door and into the bedroom. Everything was the same as I remembered it. I could see the file cabinet in the moonlight. I pushed the button and found it locked, but I was covered for that. A long screwdriver and in seconds the two drawers were opened. Damaged badly, but open. That’ll teach him to lock it.

There was a metal box inside which I knew held the money. It, too, was locked and because I’d made noise opening the cabinet, I just grabbed the box. I started to leave and noticed a beautiful pistol and holster under some papers in the other drawer. My first stupid move—I took it.

So, then I’m back in the alley with a cash box, a gun and holster in my hands, and no car. Pretty good for a beginner, I guess. Still no panic, and I quickly decided my next move. Down to the park. About eight blocks, with alleys to follow all the way. I made it with no problem. Just below the park, on the bank of the Pend O’Reille River, was what we called the jungle. It probably covered five acres and was loaded with trees and brush. Over the years, kids had built treehouses and trails through the brush. I had my own little hideaway and that’s where I went. Up until then, I hadn’t felt, or at least been aware of, any fear but when I pried open the cash box, I started shaking. It was crammed with greenbacks. I counted it in the moonlight—$1,440. A fortune in those days to almost everyone, but more so to a 16-year-old kid. Now I was scared. I was expecting maybe $100, and now this. Sheriff Bob wasn’t going to take this lightly. I had to plan carefully. I couldn’t leave anything there. If they suspected kids, they’d search this from one end to the other. I knew I should dump the gun and holster in the river, but I didn’t. I took off walking down the river, through the heavy brush, tearing my clothes and scratching myself all over my body. No way would anyone trail because the brush bent over and bounced right back in place when I passed over. So far, so good. About a mile downriver, I found a rotted log and hid the gun and holster and buried the empty cash box. I made my way to a dirt road and started hiking back to town. Only one car passed, and I hid. I couldn’t afford anyone seeing me out there. I was well aware of my appearance and I was tired, but I knew I had to do more things and had many miles yet to travel. I had a plan, and it seemed like a good one. Roy had been in town earlier with a load of posts and I hadn’t seen Dad or Bernice since that morning. Dad always parked his car on the street behind a bar when he could and, luckily, that night it was there. I kept to the dark streets and made the car without being seen. I found some paper and a pencil in the glove compartment and quickly wrote a note, Dad, Roy was in with a load of posts so I’m going back with him. See you this weekend.

From there I walked a good five miles before cutting over to the highway. It was after midnight, but almost immediately a car came along, stopped, and gave me a ride to the turnoff to Roy’s camp. Another 5-mile walk and I was home. Exhausted, but home. Mom and Roy were eating breakfast and, of course, Mom nearly fainted. I was her only son and her life kind of revolved around worrying about me and blaming herself for any mistakes I made. I made excuses enough to satisfy her and soon after followed Roy out to feed the horses. It was time to gamble. Roy, I said when we reached the barn. I need some help.

Figured you did, he said roughly, but kindly. Roy was over 60 years old then and had lived a rough, tough life. Been somewhat of an outlaw himself. What’s your problem?

I may need you to say I returned to camp with you this afternoon, I stated simply.

Why? just as simply.

Well, I started, and was quickly interrupted. Straight answers, kid. No bullshit.

I started again. Okay, Roy. This friend of mine, Pete, you don’t know him, he pulled a burglary last night. Some house, I guess. He didn’t say where. Anyway, he got scared and he couldn’t open the money box. He came to me and I helped him. For that, I got half the money. Then I got to thinking, the Sheriff don’t like me and may think I did it, so I came here.

Roy was quiet and studying me carefully. Finally he spoke. Probably ain’t the whole story, but no matter. You came out with me. I’ll take care of it with your mom. I’ll tell her you outran a cop car with a friend’s car and you’re afraid they’ll question you. She knows how you drive, so she’ll worry but she’ll believe it. He paused, then added. If I find out you lied, don’t come around for any more help. I nodded and damned near blurted out the truth.

For the next three days, I worked for Roy and watched the road, expecting either a cop car or Dad’s car, but it didn’t happen. By Friday, I had talked Roy into buying me a car in Bonners Ferry. That is, he would pay for the car with a check and I would give him cash.

We took a load in Friday afternoon and I found a 1938 Plymouth I wanted for $450. Roy gave a check, and I paid Roy. Very simple and, if I do say so myself, pretty good planning. Roy had never asked how much money I got, but I could tell he was surprised, or suspicious, when he saw the roll of bills I had left after paying him. Want some advice, kid? he asked over a beer at the club. You’d better give me a couple hundred more. I’ll write you a check you can cash in town. Stash what you got left. God, Roy was a good old boy.

I got to town about 6:00 p.m. and went to Dad’s bar first to cash my check. Dad greeted me warmly. Hey, son, how you doing? Want a beer?

Sure, I answered and sat down at the bar. I got me another car.

He looked up quickly. How’d you manage that? I thought you were broke.

I nodded. Yeah, I was, but I made a deal with Roy. He bought the car and I can work it off. Don’t owe much because I worked this week and had a little money coming.

He seemed relieved. Did the Sheriff talk to you this week?

My heart pounded. No, I answered. Why?

Somebody broke into his house. He’s checking everybody, but I told him you left with Roy in the afternoon. He’ll probably still want to talk to you, though.

What did they steal? I asked for want of anything better to say.

A gun, I guess, and he said just a little cash. Paper said about $80.

I didn’t know then, naturally, but in truth he couldn’t report the loss of $1,440. It was payoff money and not reported on taxes. So, who are the thieves?

Dad was right in that the Sheriff would talk to me. Saturday morning he met me driving down the street and he turned around. No lights or anything. Just pulled up beside me and motioned for me to follow. Back to the Sheriff’s Office. This time it was a very surprising interview. Bob was actually very nice.

I suppose you heard about the burglary? he asked. I nodded. Your dad cleared you already, Marty. But then I didn’t think it was you anyway. That is, I doubt if it was kids at all, but I figured if it was you’d know or have heard about it. If you do and if you tell me, I’ll owe you a favor. Get me?

You bet, I answered, faking an eagerness and willingness to be of help. God, I was a good old boy.

Three months passed without a word more being said in regard to the burglary. Then bigshot Marty blew the whole thing.

Dad was partner with a guy in the bar and this guy’s kid, Jack, was a good friend of mine. One day his dad bought him a .22 pistol and we went out to the dump to do some shooting. However, I had a much nicer gun than that. Just a short drive and shorter walk to the old stump, and there it was. I could see Jack was impressed. Especially when he saw the Sheriff’s name on the holster, which I hadn’t noticed in the darkness that night. But, of course, friend Jack wouldn’t say a word to anybody. He told me so. Shit! He told his dad before supper and ten minutes later Sheriff Bob had me, plus the gun and holster. Real good planning. The trip to the Sheriff’s Office went a little further this time—to the cells behind the office.

To my surprise, the Sheriff didn’t say a word to me about the crime. In fact, he was about half nice to me while he locked me up.

My first visit to the inside of a jail. I was the only prisoner and it seemed like a damned lonely place to be. Little did I know that this place and many others like it would be my home, off and on, for the next 30 years.

The jail had four open cells in the center with a hallway all around it. A table with books at the front and a toilet, shower, and big sink to the left. The barred windows looked out to a river and jail parking area. I found out later there was another dormitory-type jail upstairs for those charged with a crime and awaiting trial.

An hour later, I felt a sense of relief and a little fear when I saw Dad pull into the parking lot. Relief because I knew he’d get